


The Masterpiece

by Calacious



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Dissociative Identity Disorder, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Outsider, hints of slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hutch is kidnapped, and Starsky races against the clock to find him before it's too late.</p><p>Told from the P.O.V. of the kidnapper, who has DID.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> An experimental piece that I wrote a month or so ago, and wasn't sure about posting.
> 
> Feedback would be appreciated. 
> 
> May contain elements which people might find triggering.
> 
> I do not own any recognizable characters from the TV show, "Starsky & Hutch," in this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.

It’s not fair, but, then again, nothing is really ever fair in this life. Fair is as fair does, Kenny thinks, and he turns away from the mirror to look at the person sitting in the chair. He’s got the blonde man tied up because that’s what he’s supposed to do. That’s what’s required, and Kenny always does what’s required of him.

Kenny smiles at the man – his guest. Isn’t upset or overly surprised by the lack of a smile in response from the blonde. Kenny pats him on the face, and tries not to get mad when the man pulls away from him. He can’t get very far. Won’t make it anywhere, really, as he’s tied to the chair.

“You’re fun,” Kenny says. “I have a feeling that you’re going to be _a lot_ of fun.”

He takes out his scalpel. It’s where he last left it, which is a good sign. It means that his companion hasn’t been there, hasn’t touched any of his things. He prefers it that way. Prefers to work alone, though he doubts that he’ll be left alone for very long.

“We’ll just get started, the two of us, how’s that sound?” Kenny asks, though he doesn’t expect an answer from the blonde. The blonde’s got a rag stuffed in his mouth. The man’s blue eyes are open wide. As wide as they can go.

“Now, relax,” Kenny says, taking a deep breath. “This will hurt.”

This is one of his favorite parts. The cutting. He likes the way that the blade fits in his hand. Like it was made just for him. The way that it slices through the skin, drawing a little line of red, makes him giddy with excitement. It’s his own personal high.

The blonde man flinches when Kenny makes the first slice. It’s just below the blonde’s right eye. It’s a quick and efficient cut, a flick of his wrist in a downward slice opens the cheek. Blood spills and the blonde makes a surprised kind of noise, a drawn in breath, nostrils flaring, eyes going even wider.

Kenny pats the blonde’s cheek with the hand that’s not holding the scalpel, frowns when the blonde closes his eyes. There will be tears, but they don’t come yet. There’ll be time for that.

Maybe after _he_ comes. _He’s_ good at making them cry, Kenny thinks of Mark, and he shudders.

“Open your eyes,” Kenny says, pinching the blonde when the man shakes his head in defiance.

“I knew that you’d be a lot of fun,” he whispers, and then he removes his medical tape from his medical kit. It, too, is where he left it.

He pulls the blonde’s eyes open, applies a piece of tape to the lids, effectively taping them open. The blonde can’t close his eyes, though the tape won’t inhibit the flow of blood or tears when the time comes for both.

The blonde’s eyes look almost comical, and Kenny laughs, kisses the blonde’s cheek, takes a taste of his blood. Just a taste, because Mark will be angry if he becomes greedy. Kenny doesn’t want Mark to be mad at him.

Mark has a very bad temper, and Kenny doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of Mark’s fits, though it might be fun to see him go off on the blonde. Watch him break the blonde’s arm, or leg, maybe a couple of ribs.

Kenny swipes the scalpel across the bridge of the blonde’s nose, deep enough to reveal bone. Blood gushes down the blonde’s face, and Kenny backs away to admire his handiwork, snaps a photo. It’s beautiful. The red of the blood against the pale white features of his latest guest is enough to make Kenny high.

He kisses the blonde, tastes the blood on his lips. Salty and sweet. Perfect. Paints his lips with a smear of the blood, and slices into the blonde’s jaw.

There are tears now. They mingle with the blood. Kenny snaps more pictures. He has to capture every moment of this. He’s got a book filled with photos of all of his masterpieces.

The blonde’s mouth, stretched taut by the rag, is strained, as though he’s scowling at Kenny. He’s got his chest out, and he’s still struggling against his restraints, even more so after this latest cut that Kenny’s made. It’s unlike the others. The others had given up by now.

“He was right,” Kenny says. He circles the blonde, and the man swivels his head as much as he can to follow Kenny’s movements. He’s far more alert than the others had been, even though the drugs that had helped Kenny take them had worn off.

“You are different. Stronger. More beautiful,” Kenny says, and he pats the blonde’s head, grabs a handful of hair and pulls. Pulls the blonde’s head backward, and makes a thin line along the man’s Adam’s apple. It’s not deep enough to cause any permanent damage. The blonde won’t bleed out from it.

“Mark’s going to love you,” Kenny says. He releases the blonde’s head, watches as it bobs on the man’s neck, the action spreading the blood. He needs more pictures.

Kenny places his camera on the dresser, and concentrates on what he’s got to do next, because if it isn’t done just right Mark won’t be happy, and he wants to make Mark happy. He takes his time, a little cut here, a slice there. And all the while the blonde watches him, his blue eyes smarting with tears, and yet glaring at him. There’s so much anger and hatred reflected in the blue eyes that it almost stays Kenny’s hand.

When he’s finished the blonde’s face is covered in a series of cuts of differing depths and lengths, and blood is flowing down his face freely and beautifully. Kenny carefully places his scalpel off to the side and picks up his camera, goes through two rolls of film before Mark enters and takes over.

It’s sudden, though it’s not unexpected, and the blonde man’s eyes register fear as Kenny fades away to the background and Mark steps forward, hands around the blonde’s neck, squeezing. The blonde’s eyes start to lose focus, and Mark lets go, pulls the rag from the man’s mouth and he pulls in air, nearly choking on it.

Mark’s angry, and Kenny suspects it’s because he’s tasted more than his fair share of the blonde’s blood. He chokes the blonde again, only letting go when the man’s eyes begin to roll to the back of his head. The blonde sucks in air, head bowed, chest heaving. When he’s finally regained some control of his breathing, he raises his head, his eyes dark and defiant, and Kenny can tell that Mark’s thrilling to it.

Kenny holds his breath, waiting to see what Mark will do. He can sense that Mark’s turned on by the blonde’s fighting spirit, and Kenny is content to sit back and watch.

“You’re making a big mistake,” the blonde says, his voice is a hoarse whisper, and he’s still breathing heavily. “Let me go now, and –”

Mark slaps the blonde so hard across the face that he nearly topples him. The blonde’s head snaps to the side, and then back again, and his eyes fill with tears. His expression falters, but then he presses his lips together, another act of defiance, and Mark advances on him, kneels in front of him, and peers up at the blonde.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Mark says. “You’re mine now. The sooner you get that through your head, the better off you’ll be.”

He pushes away from the blonde, making the man and the chair wobble before resetting it with his hands on either side of the blonde’s shoulders. The blonde’s looking up at him, his taped eyes incapable of shutting or blinking, making his eyes appear redder and dryer than they should be.

Kenny’s heart races. He can practically feel the blonde’s muscles tightening beneath his own palms as Mark holds onto the blonde. He can practically smell the man’s fear, can practically taste the blood himself when Mark leans in and kisses the blonde, forcing his mouth open.

It’s a heady, dizzying feeling, and Kenny feels like he can’t breathe. Like it’s his tongue that’s being warred with when the blonde tries to force Mark out, only to inadvertently deepen the kiss. When Mark rears back to gasp for air, Kenny can feel it filling up his own lungs, and this is why he likes working with Mark, because it’s like they’re twins or something, sharing the same sensations when they work with and break another human being, make him willingly take the form and shape that they want him to.

It’s art.

It’s beauty.

It’s divine.

“I’m a cop,” the blonde says. “You’re –”

His words are swallowed up in another kiss, and Mark loosens the rope that Kenny had painstakingly secured the blonde to the chair with. It’s necessary for this next stage, as is the second administration of the drug. They almost always fight now, and Kenny knows that, though Mark’s strong, the blonde will put up a bigger fight than the others had.

Mark does this next part, transferring the blonde to the bed, securing his wrists and his ankles, on his own. Kenny watches, his heart pounding in his chest in anticipation of what is to come. He holds his tongue, breathes through his mouth to keep calm, knowing that Mark won’t like it if he gets too worked up and interferes with this stage.

Mark removes the tape from the blonde’s eyes, lets them close. He’ll be awake soon, after the drugs wear off. Mark removes the blonde’s clothes, using Kenny’s scalpel to cut loose pieces that are uncooperative.

Kenny’s fingers itch to hold the scalpel, and to mark the blonde’s body. It’s gorgeous, few scars, a blank canvas to mark up and make bleed, but Mark holds the scalpel, and has other plans for it.

Mark poises the scalpel above the blonde’s penis. Kenny holds his breath, refuses to blink. He concentrates just as hard as Mark.

He’s so focused on Mark and the blonde beneath him that Kenny doesn’t hear anyone at the door until they’re bursting through it, splintering the door on its hinges. Mark grips the scalpel tightly, and turns to wield it at the intruders, but he’s quickly overcome, and Kenny fades even further into the background when one of the men starts hitting Mark over and over again.

It feels like he’s being hit, like it’s his face, and not Mark’s, that is bearing the brunt of the dark-haired man’s fists. Someone pulls the man off of Mark, and his face is swollen, the scalpel’s fallen, and Kenny can’t find it anywhere.

“You sick mother –” the dark-haired man spits the words out, cuts off the rest of what he’s about to say when another man intervenes.

“Enough, Starsky.” He’s a black man, and, though he’s reprimanding the dark-haired man, his eyes aren’t angry, they’re filled with something that makes Kenny think of his mother.

“Take care of Hutch, I’ve got him,” the black man says, and when he looks at Mark his eyes are filled with hatred and disgust.

The black man is imposing, and Mark is unable to fight against him, especially not after the beating he’s taken. He’s cuffed, arms pulled tightly behind him, almost as tightly as Kenny had pulled the blonde’s hands behind him.

“What did he do to you?” the dark-haired man’s voice is soft when he talks to the blonde. It’s filled with deep emotions, his eyes, when they land on Mark, spit fire and anger.

Kenny can see the emotion vibrating off of the man, can see how his face gentles when he looks at the blonde, and, in spite of the fact that Mark’s being arrested, that the dark-haired man is cutting the blonde loose, he smiles, because it’s love, what the dark-haired man has for the blonde.

“What the hell are you smiling about?” the black cop asks, and Kenny blinks.

“Where did Mark go?” he asks.

The black cop doesn’t answer, shakes his head, and tugs on the cuffs. They’re locked around Kenny’s wrists, and Kenny blinks, tries to wrap his head around the confusion, because Mark’s gone, disappeared into thin air, and he’s left behind.

The dark-haired cop is pulling the blonde – now awake, and trembling, blue eyes wide with fear – to him, holding him, whispering into his ear and kissing his face, his forehead, his hair. “I’ve got you; you’re going to be okay…”

Kenny’s pulled away, can no longer hear the dark-haired man, or the blonde’s sobbed responses. He’s dizzy and tired and wishes that Mark had stayed, because Mark can handle things better than he can, and he just wants to sleep, wants to forget whatever it is that he can’t quite remember. Wants to watch the dark-haired cop comfort the blonde haired man, because it reminds Kenny of how Mark comforts him, sometimes. Reminds him of what love is like.


End file.
